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Mama

Rita Plush

    When she wasn’t tending to her mother, Mama’s youngest, Loraine, kept to herself. If she had opinions, she kept those close as well. Scuttling about in her roomy beige shirt and baggy gray pants, her hair caught back in a clip, she hummed that tune she liked so much. A more devoted daughter you would be hard-pressed to find.
    So, you can imagine Mama’s surprise when Loraine up and left the poor woman sitting in her wheelchair, breakfast eggs simmering on the burner, toast just popped, and ran off with the plumber who’d come to clear the trap under the kitchen sink.
    But when the poor woman pried herself out of her wheelchair—turned out, she was not as helpless as she seemed—and spread her own jam, and tidied up the kitchen, she decided she could get along just fine without Loraine. Without anyone, matter of fact.
    And so she did, till by and by, one fine Monday there came the other one, Dale, sashaying up the walk, all tweezed eyebrows and form-fit clothes, who hadn’t had the time of day for her Mama in weeks. Or the gym, judging from the love handles a-bulge at her mid-section, and the derrière jiggling like Jell-o on a plate, smiling like all get-out. What does she want?
    “How’re you keeping, Mama? Heard Loraine took off with that no-account plumber.”
    “No-account? Makes a right fine living fixing folks leaks and such. More than I can say for that lawyer fella you took up with. Fingers in the till, as I recall. And up your panties, if I know your trashy ways.”
    “My trashy ways? Hah!” Dale whooped. “Me and Loraine from two daddies, and you not knowing who all they were? Give-me-a-break!”
    “Stop your fussin’ over past times and wheel my chair over and help me into it, will you please. I’m feelin’ a little peaked right now. And while you’re at it, fix your Mama a nice cuppa tea. Two sugars if you don’t mind. And there’s a raisin bun on the counter I was just about to warm. Stick that in the oven for your Mama.” Then, hand to heart, “It’s been hard on me since Loraine took off.”
    “That’s why I’m here, Mama. I want to lend a hand.”
    Only hand you ever lent is the one in my purse. “Well, you’re in the nick a’time, I’ll say that for you. Got a wash all set to go. And my bed needs a freshening up.”
    “I’ll take care of that, Mama. But I need some breakfast first.” You old witch. “Can’t work on an empty stomach,” she said cheerily, wasting no time to roll a slice of Jarlsberg and slip it into her waiting mouth.
    Your stomach ain’t been empty since you wormed your way out of my bajingo and drank my teats dry. “Well, hurry it up then. I don’t want no Hoover going when I’m watching my shows. Yes, I want you to vacuum. You’re here to help, ain’tcha?”
    “Whatever you want, Mama.”
    What you want, missy is the few dollars I saved to get me through my old age. “And make sure you get at them corners. Don’t want to be lookin’ at no corner-dust on my carpet.”
    “I know how you like things, Mama.” Dale loosened up the cord and plugged in the machine. “Remember, when I kept house for you after that fall of yours?” Never thanked me proper for it neither!
    “I recall,” Mama said, unenthused, and whisked her feet off the floor. “Watch what you’re doin’! Almost sucked up my toes.”
    “Weren’t about to suck up none of your toes, Mama.” Fat old sausage toes. “Have a little patience with me. I’m recovering from my own fall.” And no one came running to help me out with my housekeeping!
    “Hmph,” was what Mama had to say, leaned back comfortably on the pillow Dale had plumped.
    “What shows are you fixing to watch?” Dale said, steering the Hoover clear of Mama.
    “Days of our Lives, to start,” Mama said. “See what kind’a mess they got themselves into t’day. The things those folks do! Always out for their own selves. Not thinkin’ ‘bout no one else. Fetch me that blanket on the sofa, will you Dale? I feel a chill comin’ on.”
    Said Dale, “How about taking in The Blab? My friends love it! Features every-day folks who tell their stories. Last week was a woman who always wanted to be a dancer and landed a part in a musical they’re going to put on down by the high school. She’s 73! Makes you feel that anything is possible. Then folks call in to ask questions. And Hattie, Hattie Latimer, she runs the show now and...”
     “Hattie Latimer!? What kinda’ fool name is that!”
    “I don’t know, Mama; it’s her name! And don’t start picking before you even see it one time.”
    “Who’s pickin’? I’m not pickin’! Are you finding fault with your Mama?”
    Don’t have to look far for that, “Just give her a chance. They said this Hattie has a real easy way about her. Lets the call-ins have their say. Except when they go on too long. Then she muzzles them up quick as... I bet quick as you, Mama.”
    “I don’t never muzzle no one up!” Mama said in a huff. “And if you think it’s such a good show, I’ll try it for a change. What do you think a’that!”
    “That just fine, Mama. After I finish the Hoovering. And the wash. And do up your bed. We’ll take it in.”
    “Could use a sponge bath, now that I think about it,” Mama said.
    “Sponge you down?” said Dale. Take the better part of the day, that will. And all the water in the tank. Lazy old cow. “Sure, Mama.”

    Settled into her chair, Mama dusted up with that Swanson’s Baby Powder on her smelly old kooch, Dale, finally able to sit a minute, turned on The Blab.
    The credits rolled, and then the music. A lively, familiar melody neither Mama nor Dale could place. The camera panned to a slim, youngish woman, maybe 30/35, behind a desk. A colorful scarf looped about her neck in a stylish way, but nothing that would put you off and make her seem la-de-da. Her hair, loose at her shoulders, had a natural wave to it. She wasn’t what they’d call pretty—Mama never called anyone pretty—but then, she wasn’t plain either. Just right, she seemed to them, with a pleasant way about her. They took her in, both with a quizzical look upon their faces. Then, in unison, as if pulled by some magnetic force, they both leaned in to the TV, far as they could without falling off their seats.
    “Good afternoon, friends,” said Hattie Latimer, “and welcome to The Blab.”
    And Mama said, “Dale?”
    And Dale said, “Mama?”
    Then, “Stop it! Stop it!!” Mama cried out.
    “Stop what?”
    “The TV! Stop it with that gizmo in your fool hand!”
    “You mean the remote?” Dale said, herself somewhat dumbfounded by what she had just seen and heard on the TV, while Hattie Latimer chatted gaily on with her guest. This day, a woman who hada talent for baking cookies in the likeness of folks taken from a photo.
    “No! My Aunt Fanny’s ass!” Mama said. “Yes the remote!”
    Dale froze the screen.
    Mama looked at Hattie Latimer.
    Dale looked at Hattie Latimer.
    Mama and Dale looked at each other. A stillness settled over the room.
    “Now go back to the start of it,” Mama said. “That music they played. I want to hear it again,” her voice so serious, she could have been a crime scene investigator.
     Dale rewound the tape, played it back. Mama hummed along with the music. Dale began to sing. “...change in the weather, change in the sea...” in a clear sure voice that rinsed the room of its grayish pall and brought light to it. “From now on, there’ll be a change in meee...”
    “Stop that caterwauling!”
    “It’s not caterwauling, Mama. I’m singing. And some folks say I have a nice voice.” They didn’t, but if Mama said it was bad, it could be good. Mama never said anything Dale did was good. “My walk will be different, my talk and my naaame.’” Dale shifted her shoulders this way and that, snapped her fingers to the beat. She felt good singing.
    “It’s about change, Mama! ‘Nothin’ ‘bout me gonna be the saaame,’” she crooned. “It’s the way Loraine changed. Changed everything about herself, even her name.” Dale was beside herself with excitement. “From Loraine Henkle to Hattie Latimer! She switched the initials around! That’s what folks do when they want to become someone else but they still want to keep something of their old selves.” Though what part Loraine wanted to keep about being a servant girl to her Mama all those years, Dale could not imagine.
     “Cut your yammering!” Mama said. “Get on with the show. Want a closeup of that Hattie Latimer. Okay. Stop! Stop it now!”
    Dale paused the tape. Mama wheeled over and tapped the screen. “That’s her a’right. See that scar. Right there by her chin. Hmph! Think she’d have enough sense to cover it up knowin’ she’s on the TV. Got that scar when she fell out’ta that tree in the yard. Good thing I was there to break her fall, else her whole jaw would’a come right off.”
    “I broke her fall, Mama. You were inside playing rummy.” Dealing from the bottom of the deck, no doubt.
    “Hmph! Never you mind about who did what,” Mama said. “So that’s what li’l sissy’s been up to. Gone now, what? Six months, and not a word for her Mama, she’s alive or dead. And me frettin’ day and night where she’s been.”
    You’re frettin’ alright. Frettin’ you have to fix your own meals and clean your own house for a change.
    “Do you think she was planning it all along with that plumber she ran off with?” Dale said, and couldn’t help thinking: Loraine. Like a little mouse she was, scuttling after Mama’s every beck and call one day, and the next she’s got a silk scarf around her neck and her own TV show. How did that happen? Happened because she made it happen, came a voice in her head. She up and did it!
    “After all I done for that child...” Mama said in her usual huff.
    As if mustering courage from her little sister’s breakout, “What did you ever do for Loraine, Mama?” Dale asked. “And...” Say it! Say it! Show some gumption! “And, what did you ever do for me, besides taking me down every time I tried to come up? Like that job offer over in Liston you said would be too much for me. Too much for you, you meant. Too much time away in case you wanted me to run and fetch for you.”
    Mama’s eyes went wide—she did not take kindly to challenge. “Don’t go blamin’ me for what you didn’t have the good sense to see was a decent job. Now, enough of your fool talk. And enough of Loraine.” She grabbed the remote from her daughter. “I’m gonna watch me a real show. And wouldja’ fix me a snack, Dale. Got the sugar, ya’know. Haft’a eat regular, doctor says.”
    Sugar. Ha! Would take all the sugar in this wide word to sweeten you up. “I’m done fixing for you, Mama! And Hoverving. And sponging you down. And what all else you may have in mind. I got some of my own changes coming up. Like seeing if that job over in Liston is still open,” then, “A change in the weather and the tide and the sea...” she belted out. “How’s that for caterwauling, Mama?” And she swung the door shut with a good hard smack.
    “Ingrates, the two a’them,” Mama muttered. She flicked the channels till she found her show.
    “Like sands through the hourglass... so are the days of our lives...” announced the host.

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